


all the kingdom lights shined just for me and you

by bellamythology (onemanbellarmy)



Series: kids on the run (young, wild, halfway free) [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Football, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Football player!Bellamy, cheerleader!octavia, drum major!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemanbellarmy/pseuds/bellamythology
Summary: One of the boys turned, tugging off his helmet, and Clarke’s heart stuttered at the sight of those familiar dark curls. (She couldn’t see his freckles from here, but there never was a time when she wasn’t hyperaware of their existence. Irrationally, she missed them, or maybe just the sight of them.)  Bellamy Blake: football team captain and center, varsity soccer player, honors student, aspiring historian, and Clarke’s boyfriend. Not necessarily in that order.He waved in the band’s general direction, seeking her out, and Clarke blew a kiss to him. When he saw her, she could just barely make out the spark in his eyes. Their sappy grins probably matched.(It's the last football game of their senior year - in other words, their last high school football game ever.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tonight happens to be my own last football game ever, so this fic is kind of a self-indulgent ode to that experience. I actually started this as a commemoration of our last _first_ game, so there may be some continuity errors within the fic. Do please let me know if you catch any of those!
> 
> Also, I did do some research, but I'm much more familiar with the band than with football or cheer so I likely made some mistakes with terminology and such. Feel free to correct me, or chalk it up to creative license. Your choice.
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift, naturally.

Ten minutes to go.

Clarke squinted against the stadium lights, trying to find jersey number 54. With their helmets and padded uniforms, the players all looked much the same, especially from the bleachers — not at all helpful when you were trying to locate one in particular.

One of the boys turned, tugging off his helmet, and Clarke’s heart stuttered at the sight of those familiar dark curls. (She couldn’t see his freckles from here, but there never was a time when she wasn’t hyperaware of their existence. Irrationally, she missed them, or maybe just the sight of them.) 

Bellamy Blake: football team captain and center, varsity soccer player, honors student, aspiring historian, and Clarke’s boyfriend. Not necessarily in that order.

He waved in the band’s general direction, seeking her out, and Clarke blew a kiss to him. When he saw her, she could just barely make out the spark in his eyes. Their sappy grins probably matched.

As Finn Collins gave the usual pre-game announcements, Clarke caught a flash of straight brown hair in her peripheral vision and grinned, remembering how Octavia had complained over lunch that the cheer team had yet to find a uniform that was simultaneously flattering and warm enough for the cold nights that were coming.

Lincoln — Octavia’s boyfriend, Lexa’s cousin, one of Bellamy’s co-captains and best friends — was out on the field too, standing among the defensive players waiting in an eager line along the sideline.

Coach Kane said something, and the team — Bellamy included — focused their attention his way. Conveniently, the band directors chose the same moment to address the band, so Clarke tore her eyes from the field.

Reveling in her power as Head Drum Major, Lexa climbed onto one of the short lengths of bleacher that they used as podiums, tugging on her white gloves while Wells found and held up the “Fight Song” sign. Once Clarke had hopped up beside Lexa — gloves forgotten in her backpack, up at the top of the band section of bleachers with all the other drum majors’ stuff; she’d retrieve them later — and band director Anya had nodded the okay, Raven counted them off with the gock block.

And so began the football game: the last one, for all of them but Octavia.

 

Perhaps fortunately, Clarke was rummaging through the box of mini-posters the first time Bellamy hit the ground.

In her peripheral hearing, Finn gleefully described the scene: “Tackle made by number 48, Cage Wallace. Number 54, Bellamy Blake, is down!”

Clarke just barely managed not to freeze; as it was, she straightened empty-handed.

Noticing that his best friend had uncharacteristically failed to finish her task, Wells signaled Monroe to start up a percussion cadence before turning to her. She didn’t notice, wide eyes fixed on the field where Coach Kane and athletic trainer Luna were helping Bellamy to his feet.

Not until Bellamy nodded, flashing a discreet thumbs-up, could Clarke relax.

Lexa sighed, meant to show disappointment in her fellow drum major but really displaying relief that he’d be fine, a hint of a half-smile on her face. “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

“More like a long season,” amended Wells.

Ignoring them both, Clarke had gone back to digging through their box of song signs, an increased tension in her shoulders just barely noticeable under her uniform.

 

Five minutes to halftime.

Calm and orderly, the green-and-black uniformed Arcadia Marching Band filed out of the bleachers onto the track surrounding the field, meandering into their walk-on lines.

As the center drum major in the first movement, Clarke stood near the front, supervising the process alongside the band directors and her leadership teammates. She had just sent a freshman on his way, plume adjusted the precisely correct angle, when an arm slid around her waist from behind.

It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes — or the shock on the underclassmen’s faces, though that was entertaining — to guess who.

“I could’ve kneed you in the balls, you know I hate being snuck up on.” Even as she said this, Clarke let herself relax against his chest.

“We do wear padding for a reason.” Amusement danced in Bellamy’s eyes, she knew even without turning to look. He pressed a light kiss to her cheek — forehead and temple were his preferences, and (truth be told) consequently hers as well, but you made do when the shako limited your access to your girlfriend’s face. “You’re gonna nail it tonight, babe.”

Wistfulness seeped through Clarke’s voice as she pointed out, “It’s our last game.”

“You guys want a picture for posterity?” At their nod, Harper shifted her color guard equipment to one arm and pulled her phone from the inside pocket of the jacket she’d take off when it got closer to performance time and snapped a few as they posed. That quickly became a free-for-all selfie session, but no one complained.

A burst of music from the press box startled them back into ready positions, and Bellamy straightened. “Cheer’s about to perform.”

Clarke grinned. “Go on, then. Blow your sister a kiss for me.”

 

No one could say that Octavia Blake hadn’t worked her ass off the past few years. As cheer co-captain, she paced between members of her team, conducting last-minute checks of uniforms and hair. Once she and Maya made eye contact for a we’re-ready nod, they led their girls onto the field.

With her brother, best friends, and boyfriend all watching, Octavia was more than ready to show off her team’s hard work. This was the moment she lived for, the grand reveal of a carefully planned and practiced routine that no outsider had yet enjoyed in its splendid entirety.

A few trials and errors later, the usual technical difficulties were resolved well enough to play the music to go with tonight’s performance. Louder than they were used to — campus being a space shared between multiple groups who decidedly did not appreciate their yearbook-perfect moments being ruined by others’ soundtracks — the familiar melody called up all the appropriate muscle memory to get the girls through each set.

On her way off the field, Octavia swiped a stray strand behind her ear and grinned at her favorite people in the world, all of whom looked simultaneously decorous and dorky with their uniforms and affectionately fond smiles. She imagined she looked the same, just a lot sweatier.

“How’d we look?” she murmured as she passed her big brother — the most reliable member of the audience at all their shows — on the way to the traditional post-performance team huddle. He gave her a thumbs-up and a proud grin.

Once the cheer team was safely off the field, Anya nodded and Lexa signaled Monroe to initiate tap-off. The band began marking time, polished marching shoes moving only slightly as Harper and Gina led the guard out to set all their equipment. When the last two had crossed the line marking the edge of the endzone, the neat ranks of uniformed musicians filed after them, taking practiced straight-line paths to their opening set.

“From Arcadia, California, we are proud to present the Arcadia High School Marching Band. Drum majors Lexa Woods, Clarke Griffin, Wells Jaha, and Raven Reyes — _is your band ready?_ ”

Clarke pivoted crisply, executed the salute she’d spent months practicing. (The four of them had messed around, coming up with multiple ridiculous iterations thereof, but tonight it mattered. This was serious.) As she removed her shako and set it gingerly in the corner of the podium, Clarke savored the sound of Nyko announcing those familiar words: “You may take the field in halftime exhibition.”

Nodding just slightly to Wells and Raven, she called the band to set. The color guard began their preshow, meandering calculatedly around the field in small groups — facsimiles of loitering teenagers who had not yet begun their hero’s journey. Carefully watching Clarke’s white-gloved hands, Monroe set the opening tempo with the familiar tap-off.

And so they began.

Clear notes rang out in the stadium, first the front ensemble melody driven by Monty’s synthesizer, then joined by Bryan’s solo; step-offs and direction changes were cleaner than Clarke had ever seen in rehearsal. Even as she conducted, Clarke took a mental snapshot of the moment.

Formation after formation emerged on the field. The color guard’s costume change revealed the brighter uniforms under their gray cloaks. The marching musicians halted on the field, raised their instruments — bell angles perfectly matched, for once — and took a collective deep breath. Harmoniously, that first ensemble note set the tone for the rest of their show.

 

At the signal from Lexa, standing tall and proud on the center podium after gracing the audience with a final bow on behalf of the whole band, they all filed back off the field — feet a little less in time now that the pressure of imminent performance was over.

On the track bordering the field, the Arcadia High School Marching Band circled up around Anya for the usual debrief/pep talk. Once she’d finished laying out logistics for the rest of the night, Anya released them to go change back into street clothes for the rest of the game.

The third quarter was already well underway by the time they returned; most of the band immediately scattered to the concession stands and/or bathrooms. Wells and Raven disappeared together; Lexa headed back into the bleachers to look for Costia.

Newly armed with a hot dog and two bags of Sour Patch Kids, Clarke kept an eye on the scoreboard. (She would’ve preferred to watch the field, but she couldn’t see it through the crowds from here.) The team seemed to be doing fine, but she still hurried back to the band section of the bleachers.

Though the score ping-ponged between the two teams, the quarter was mostly as uneventful as high school football could be. From the stands, Clarke watched Bellamy tip his head back slightly, and she knew he was doing the same thing she was — savoring the moment. This was it.

 

Two minutes to go in the fourth and final quarter.

The score was almost tied, just a point’s difference, and really it could be either team’s game at this point. Mount Weather had the ball, but Arcadia wasn’t going down without a fight.

One minute.

 Lincoln intercepted a pass. The clock paused as the teams traded players.

Thirty seconds.

Clarke winced as one of the larger defenders collided with Bellamy, but her boyfriend kept his feet and continued running. The ball changed hands time and time again, players darting across the field with increasing desperation as the scoreboard clock ticked down the seconds.

Ten seconds.

Lexa picked up the “Fight Song” card, holding it ready at her side.

Five. Four. Three…

_Touchdown._

The home crowd jumped to their feet, cheering. Clarke just barely managed to hold back, instead watching Wells as he counted the band off.

 

As the buzzer sounded, hardly audible over the roar of the spectators and the triumphant roll of the Arcadia High School fight song, Bellamy tugged off his helmet, shaking out his sweaty curls with a grin. The past four years had been a good fight, but now it was time to pass on the mantle.

He briefly clapped Miller on the shoulder, nodded to Lincoln. Even as he reveled in the band’s war cries, Bellamy looked up toward that section of the bleachers hoping to catch her eye, if only briefly. She still had a responsibility to the band, after all, for at least the next few minutes.

His girlfriend, his closest friend, his Clarke. She glanced over her shoulder, as he’d hoped she would, and held his gaze with a smile.

And if she was distracted for a moment too long, who was going to berate her?

It was their last game.

**Author's Note:**

> If you actually read all the way to the end, thank you so much! (And if you only skimmed, well, that's totally cool too. Like I said, self-indulgent.) Hope you enjoyed it <3
> 
> Come talk to [me](http://bellamythology.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


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